The Fading Light
by Somniabunt
Summary: A second is all it takes to change a life. To make or break a person, a group, a family. Who cares if someone's light goes out if we're all just a moment in time anyway? Flickers into the lives of the Weasley family. Post war.


_I own nothing. _

* * *

Bill Weasley leaned back in his chair as he sat at the small table in Shell Cottage, a bloody plate in front of him, the only evidence of his extremely rare steak. A sigh escaped him as he tried to relax, not that it was easy to do at the moment. He had spent the last few days bouncing between the goblins at Gringotts, trying to smooth things over on that end regarding the fallout from the war, and other half of his time imparting the knowledge he had from his curse breaking days in Egypt to those responsible for the tombs that would become the final resting place for those lost in the war.

Bill was torn from his thoughts as Fluer drifted past him and swept his plate up from the table in a graceful move, a small smile cracking his otherwise scarred and haggard face as the part-Veela managed to deliver a kiss to his cheek at the same time. Words weren't needed between them all the time, and he was grateful to have her in his life, to call her his wife.

Rising from his chair, Bill crossed the small kitchen to her in a few strides, his arms wrapping around her from behind as she placed his dish in the sink and the couple stayed together for a while, both looking out of the window to where the waves were breaking along the coastline. Bill's hand drifted to rest along Fluer's stomach, resting gently over the new life they both knew was growing in her womb.

It was moments like this that brought him back to the present, and he wondered how long it could last.

* * *

Charlie Weasley sniffed the air, a heady, smokey scent filling his nostrils. It was so thick he was sure if he flicked his tongue out, he'd be able to taste it. He was close, and he knew it. He had spent the last week tracking the dragon that his youngest brother had released from the bowels of Gringott's, knowing that the beast needed to be recaptured before muggles became away, and needed to be rehomed before the goblin's got their hands on it again.

Kneeling down, Charlie swept his gaze over the ground in the glen he had tracked the dragon to, trying to find any signs of which way it had gone. Thanks to the damage caused by the goblins, it couldn't fly for long distances without needing to rest, and he was positive this was the place it had made a nest for the last few nights.

Charlie didn't know how close he was until he felt a huff of hot air against the back of his neck, every hair on his body standing up on end. Turning at an agonisingly slow rate, Charlie tensed himself, every muscle in his body primed and ready to move as he came face to face with the dragon, and it did not look happy to see him.

A roguish grin broke out across his face as he dived suddenly, barely making it out of the way of the pillar of flame that engulfed where he had just been, his jacked arm smouldering where it still got singed.

A reckless thrill took over as Charlie pulled out his wand, ready to move again at the slightest indication from the dragon, "let's dance."

* * *

"Percy? It's late. The whole damn world is asleep. Go home. You need rest," Kingsley Shacklebolt's voice was soft but firm as he spoke to the young man hunched over a desk, his usually immaculate hair a mess of fire red from where he had been running his fingers through it, horn rimmed glasses perched crookedly on his nose.

Percy Weasley grunted an answer, the sound mostly non-committal but it was the best Kingsley was going to get and he knew it. Percy was as tenacious and stubborn as the rest of his family, and it seemed like in the wake of the war he was determined to work himself into the ground.

"Go home, Percy," Kingsley ordered one last time before continuing down the corridor, needing to escape the ministry himself. He only hoped the junior minister would heed his advice.

Percy made no sign of moving as he sat, staring at a ratty old scrap of parchment without really seeing it, the report from his first assignment under Barty Crouch stained with dung from the prank Fred and George had played on him, seemingly a lifetime ago.

Percy barely flinched as the lights went out, the sensor charms not detecting him anymore as he sat frozen in place, still staring at the old report even in the dark, no longer seeing as tears ran down his nose to drip steadily onto the already ruined parchment.

* * *

A muscle in Ron Weasley's jaw twitched as he listened to his two best friends talking, not absorbing a word they said. He grunted back into awareness when both looked at him expectantly, and he realised that he was supposed to be answering something, but he had no idea what. Ron couldn't help the flicker of frustration that passed through him, grunting out another answer.

"Sure."

A usually safe answer seemed to have backfired on him this time as he saw both of them look at him, eyes softening with what was definitely pity, and Ron felt the anger bubbling inside of him rise to the surface.

"Do whatever you want," Ron growled out, his hands clenching into tight fists at his sides. He was sick of their pity, of the talks about what was going to happen next, or where they were going. He felt like no one understood what was going on in his head, in his life. And every time they looked at him with sadness, or pity or anything in their eyes he found himself growing angrier and angrier. At Harry, at Hermione, at Voldemort, at the world, at all of them. "I'm going for a walk," Ron declared, rising to his feet and storming out of Grimmauld Place, the front door slamming behind him hard enough to rattle the curtains covering the portrait of Walburga Black, her curses filling the house behind him.

* * *

It had taken hours for Harry to finally get the portrait of Walburga to stop screaming obscenities at them all, and he was exhausted as he trudged up the stairs to the room that he was currently sharing with Ginny Weasley. He was worried about her, the young witch having barely come down to spend time with any of them in the last few days, and he wasn't even sure when she last left the house. He knew she hadn't gone back to the Burrow yet, and he had already told her that she could stay at Grimmauld Place as long as she needed.

"You okay, Gin?" Harry gently asked as he sat on the edge of the bed, reaching out to rub his hand gently along the redhead's back as she lay curled on her side under the blankets, what appeared to be a Weasley sweater clutched against her chest.

"Who cares if someone's time runs out? We're just moments in time…" Ginny mumbled quietly, her voice thick with tears.

"Gin?" Harry frowned, shifting closer to the younger witch as she spoke.

"There's millions of people in the world… who cares, right?" there was a tremor to her voice now, the sweater pulled harder against herself, the letter F embroidered on the front in bold, yellow stitching.

"I care, Ginny. I do," Harry heard his own voice crack, shifting to lay next to Ginny, pulling her against his chest as he spooned her, wishing that he could take all of her hurt away.

"I do…"

* * *

Pots and pans clattered gently together as they moved in the deep kitchen sink, soap suds cushioning each blow as they washed themselves, the only sounds in the otherwise silent area. Clearing his throat gently, Arthur ducked his head under the doorway as he stepped into the kitchen, "Molly, dear?"

He got no response from his wife, standing with her hands braced against the back of a chair, and Arthur slowly made his way towards her. A frown tugged at his lips as he got closer, noting the drawn expression on her face, the worn, haggard look from the war having not yet lifted, not that he had expected it to. The final battle had been fought and won just barely a week ago, and the magical community was in chaos as it tried to find a semblance of organisation. Arthur himself had spent most days at the Ministry, helping the newly appointed Minister Shacklebolt as they tried to find control. The aurors were all dispatched, hunting down the remaining Death Eaters who had fled after the fall of Voldemort, and concerted efforts were going into repairing the damage to Hogwarts as well as finding provisions to help rebuild Diagon Alley. The whole country had been impacted over the last twelve months, with the first lights of brilliance shining only now that the Dark Lord had fallen.

"Molly?" Arthur's voice was soft as he grew closer to her, one of his hands coming to rest warmly on her shoulder. He still received no response, but he felt the trembling of her shoulders as her body shook with barely repressed sobs, and this close he could see the silent tears streaming down his wife's face. Following her gaze, he swept his eyes over the pockmarked, worn kitchen table and the chairs haphazardly strewn around it. Furrowing his brow, he tried to figure out what was wrong. As far as memory served him, the table had always been a place of food, of chatter, of family, and he couldn't see anything that had changed. Deciding to look again rather than try to prompt Molly into speaking, he did another scan of the table, marking where each of them would normally sit. His chair was empty at the end, and Molly was braced against her own. Ron's chair was pushed out as always, Ginny's seat tucked in, but not nearly as neatly as the one always reserved for Percy. The next two chairs were crooked, tangled in a way that he was never sure was really possible for furniture but it was to be expected from the twins. Widening his eyes, it clicked into place that there was now one more chair than they would need. Moving around her, Arthur drew Molly into a tight hug, his lips pressing against the top of her head as she sobbed into his chest.

"Oh Molly…" Arthur sighed, swaying slightly as he held his wife in the kitchen. Looking up, he couldn't help but notice the family clock on the wall, in the same place it always was. His hand was next to Molly's, both marked at home. The rest of the family was scattered about, marking the places that they were known to be. A sigh of relief left him when he noticed that for the first time since the war started, every single hand had moved from 'mortal peril' to a known location - except. A strangled sound escaped Arthur as he saw the two hands, together as always, one for Fred, one for George. Never separated, not even now. Not even as they both pointed towards the same word, apart from the rest of the family.

Arthur's own tears fell as he held his wife, both in mourning for the cracks in their hearts that might never heal right, his eyes never looking away from the word 'lost' on the family clock, the hands of his twin sons pointing towards it.

* * *

Fireworks lit up the night sky, exploding in colourful pinwheels and bursts, every colour of the rainbow illuminating the street below, the excited faces of young children seen for the first time in months in the streets of Diagon Alley. Shop owners and families alike milled around on the cobblestones to watch the display, shining, sparkling renditions of phoenix's rising in the night sky and flying until they faded, falling down towards the Earth only to brighten up and rise once more.

The whole show had been planned for months, designed and orchestrated to perfection, and even now it was watched from the uppermost balcony of Weasley's Wizard Wheezes, the owner standing on the platform to watch.

It was close to half an hour before the display reached the planned end, and the rise of hundreds of sparkling, firework phoenixes drew cheers and gasps from the street below.

A bubble began to swell in George Weasley's chest as he turned to look at the spot next to him, the words out of his mouth before the last spark began to fall.

"Well, what do you think, Fred? A good show or what?"

The crowd below dispersed as darkness began to settle, the last spark flickering as it fell down to the ground before snuffing out completely, plunging Weasley's Wizard Wheeze's into a blackness second only to the Peruvian instant darkness powder sold below, hiding the tear stricken face of the shop's solo owner from view.


End file.
